


To Paint a Dream

by KelpieChaos



Category: D.N. Angel
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Possibly Unrequited Love, Satoshi has a Bad Time, Self-Hatred, Suicide, Unrequited Love, moderate disassociation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 11:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20388961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpieChaos/pseuds/KelpieChaos
Summary: A normal theft ends disastrously, and no one takes it well. Especially not Satoshi.





	To Paint a Dream

> _A dream is a wish your heart makes_
> 
> _When you’re fast asleep_
> 
> _In dreams you will lose your heartaches_
> 
> _Whatever you wish for, you keep…_
> 
> _~Cinderella_

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This _wasn’t supposed to happen._

Satoshi felt like screaming. Like crying. Like…nothing. His constant struggles with Krad stilled, too in shock to fight for control of his own body.

Krad just…

Krad just _killed_ Daisuke.

_How?!_ Dark was supposed to protect Daisuke! He was supposed to protect Daisuke from _exactly this!_

He could feel Krad’s stupefaction that his wild energy blast had not only hit, but had razed the hidden thief to the still ground. A sharp scream and a thud, and suddenly Dark’s lanky form was melting into Daisuke’s shorter, motionless frame.

Krad’s surprise was shifting to satisfaction.

He couldn’t stand it.

Screaming a wordless howl, Satoshi threw everything he had at breaking Krad’s control.

_“Master Satoshi!” _Krad fell to one knee, clutching his head at the force Satoshi was using.

He didn’t respond, his focus sharpening and emotions freezing, crystalizing into blades he could use to cut their connection. He ruthlessly pushed forwards, calm as a storm rolling in. The pain Krad felt at his attack was distant, not truly belonging to Satoshi, and it only drove him to cut deeper, push harder. He could hear that Krad was trying to talk to him, but he had no interest in listening to that monster’s gilded words, or responding to them.

With every inch gained, he shoved Krad further and further back. Every strike Krad threw back at him felt like it glanced off, like it hit a shield of concentrated nothing before it could touch him. Advancing, he forced Krad’s retreat, compressing him into the smallest corner of his mind possible. He threw mental chains over the demon’s struggling, screaming form, binding him with no chance of escape.

With Krad secure, Satoshi turned arctic eyes to the outside.

The first thing he noticed was that he was lying fetal on the grass. They must have fallen while he was taking his body back.

The second thing he noticed was the wings.

Slowly, he sat up, blank gaze focused on the feathered menaces attached to his back. Why were they still there? They only came out with Krad. And the rest of him had already returned to normal. He absently reached back to touch one of the wings, distantly surprised when he could feel the touch through the feathers. Almost curious now, he tried to move them - a flap, a twitch, anything - to see if he had control or only sensation.

The wings stretched, then folded neatly against his back.

It had taken less than a thought and felt no different than if he had stretched out an arm.

He’d deal with what that meant later.

Satoshi moved to stand, but collapsed back down as all the injuries Krad had sustained in his fight with Dark flared. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to his feet. This wasn’t any different than the aftermath of their previous fights, and he refused to let this defeat him. As he straightened up, he felt the wings automatically resettle to help balance him. He resolved to ignore them. He stumbled into motion, gait smoothing slightly after a few steps as he adjusted to the wounds and wings. His gaze fixed on Daisuke’s limp body, and the only thought in his head was that _he needed to get to him_.

Panting quietly, and holding his side where one wound was startlingly deep and bleeding sluggishly, he staggered his way to Daisuke’s side. Daisuke lay on his stomach, face turned away from him. His limbs were splayed around him, but he didn’t seem injured anywhere. If anything, Daisuke looked like he had just laid down for a nap in the forest clearing.

He fell to his knees and reached for Daisuke’s shoulder with his clean hand. He stopped just before making contact, scared that touching Daisuke would make it real. He couldn’t help himself hoping that Daisuke would wake up with a groan and bleary gaze, just like he did whenever he fell asleep in class.

But Daisuke was already cold.

Satoshi bowed his head, hatred flaring incandescent for Krad, for Dark, for _himself_. His hand fisted in the back of Daisuke’s loose shirt, and he sat there, trembling in the eye of too many emotions.

Daisuke didn’t deserve this. If anyone did, _he_ did, cursed container of a demon as he was.

Carefully, he released his hold on Daisuke. He’d take Daisuke home, and then…

And then…

He didn’t know.

But the least he could do was bring Daisuke back to his family. They didn’t deserve to worry for hours how their beloved child was late, only to have their worst fears confirmed. He couldn’t do anything about Daisuke now, but he could reduce his family’s pain. He hoped so at least.

Nodding to himself, he stood up again. He cast a sharp look around, searching for the small statue that had sparked this last fight. It hadn’t even been important, just a silly little thing that had started to wake up and draw attention. Such a stupid thing to fight over. Such a stupid thing to _die_ over.

Spotting it by a large tree, he slowly made his way over, wary and watching for signs that the temporary seal Dark had placed had broken. The last thing he wanted right now was another fight.

But if it fought, and he kept Krad suppressed, maybe…

No. He had to bring Daisuke home. After that…after that he could figure out what to do.

The statue laid quietly though, only the barest magical signature marking it as a Hikari work instead of some random bit of carved stone. Satoshi picked it up, gently brushing the dirt from its face. He felt the impression of it humming happily under his hands, but, thankfully, no other reaction occurred.

He made his way back towards Daisuke, and he crouched next to him to place the statue in the bag Daisuke had brought with him. From this angle, he could see Daisuke’s face. Daisuke’s eyes were closed. A grateful sigh escaped; Satoshi didn’t think he could handle seeing his normally sparkling red eyes dull. A peaceful expression graced Daisuke’s face, none of the fear or hatred Satoshi _knew_ should be there present. He delicately pushed a lock of Daisuke’s unruly hair from his face, mind blank except for the desperate wish that he could somehow wake the prostrate boy. If only this was a fairytale, and true love’s kiss could rouse him.

Satoshi scoffed at the thought. Like he’d know anything about true love anyway. Him, whose mother died due to their blood, whose father had been missing for as long as he could remember, whose adoptive father just wanted to use him for his curse? The idea he had any clue what love was was ridiculous. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from placing his head against Daisuke’s, lips bare millimeters from cold skin and breath brushing across motionless lips.

The bushes rustled behind him.

Heart racing, he whipped around. Did the police find them? How would he explain _this_?

Red eyes surrounded by soft white fluff met his.

“Kyu?” The rabbit-like creature bristled at him, nose whuffling at the air. It couldn’t seem to decide whether to fight him or check on the limp form behind him, half hidden by his spread wings.

“You’re…” Satoshi knew he’d seen this creature before. Wracking his thoughts, he watched as it warily hopped around him and closer to Daisuke. _Kyuu_-ing sadly, it nudged Daisuke’s cheek. Seeing them together sparked something, and memories flooded Satoshi briefly: the creature in Daisuke’s bag and desk, them in the middle of a crowd of girls ooh-ing and ah-ing over how cute they were, a brief glimpse before it transformed into Dark’s wings. “Oh, that’s right,” he murmured, “you’re Dark’s familiar, aren’t you? Wiz.”

At its name, the creature turned large, sad eyes on him. Satoshi found he couldn’t meet them.

“I’m… I’m so sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. It was an accident? Krad had certainly made it clear that he wanted the Niwas dead, so he’d be lying to say it wasn’t on purpose.

Why was he so useless? Satoshi felt his nails bite into his palms, near welcoming the pain. It was less than he deserved. He couldn’t control Krad, couldn’t _stop_ him, and killed the one person willing to call him friend. And he couldn’t even properly apologize to his _pet_. How was he going to face his family?

“Kyuu…”

A wet touch dragged him out of his thoughts, and Satoshi looked down to see Wiz carefully nuzzling his hand. Feeling like he was unlocking each muscle individually, he relaxed the hand, letting Wiz push its head under. Its fur was soft, reminding him of a new paintbrush. Drifting his hand down the small creature, he felt how the fur changed from its ears to its back, how its body expanded and relaxed with each breath, how it draped itself over and nuzzled into his leg. He brought his hand back, petting Wiz again. When no complaint came, Satoshi felt his body slump, releasing the tension he’d held all night. Slowly, he let the pattern – stroke, pause, breathe in, stroke, pause, breathe out – soothe him.

Eventually, though, Wiz nudged his hand away. It hopped to the forgotten bag, grabbing its strap and dragging it over. Dropping the strap in Satoshi’s lap, it _kyuu_-ed softly, sitting back and staring up at him.

“It’s time to go, isn’t it,” Satoshi heard himself say. At Wiz’s nod, he closed his eyes and sighed. “Alright…”

He swung the bag over his head, settling it to make sure the statue wouldn’t fall out as he moved. As gently as he could, he rolled Daisuke over, shifting him onto his back so Satoshi could lift him. Ignoring the flare of pain, Satoshi pulled Daisuke into his arms and stood up. Awkward as it was to hold a boy nearly as big as he was, he found that he could only wish it was in different circumstances.

A flash of light next to him forced him to turn away, and when he turned back Wiz had disappeared.

“Wiz?” He called. A sudden thought hit him. What if killing Daisuke meant Wiz died too? Alarmed, he started to turn to look for the familiar.

Only to be met with black feathers.

Satoshi blinked at them, craning his neck around to check that, yes, they were in fact attached to him. But his wings were white.

They flapped daintily all of a sudden, entirely of their own will. They almost seemed to be laughing at him.

Apparently Wiz could assist him with flight as well, not just Dark. Somehow it’d replaced his wings, and entirely painlessly.

Feeling his eyes start to water, Satoshi closed them and took a deep breath. He couldn’t let himself cry. Not now. Not when there were people who deserved to much more than he. “Thank you,” he whispered. Steeling himself, he tightened his hold on Daisuke’s body and nodded. “Let’s go.”

With a great _whoosh_ of air, Wiz launched them into the air.

* * *

It was still late enough at night that none of the neighbors would see them land in front of the Niwa residence. A fast flash of light heralded Wiz returning back to its original form, balancing on Satoshi’s shoulder. It gently dropped down to Daisuke’s chest and pointed at the doorbell, _kyuu_-ing softly.

Cautious of bumping Daisuke, Satoshi moved closer to the house to let Wiz press the doorbell. Silence echoed from inside for the span of a heartbeat, of two, then the sound of a scramble to the door broke it. Satoshi stepped back just as the door was flung open, Daisuke’s mother stopping just short of bowling him over.

Satoshi watched as the blood drained from her face as she caught sight of her son.

“Daisuke!”

Her hands jerked over her mouth, eyes growing misty. Slowly, anger overtook her shock. Her fiery eyes pinned Satoshi, and her hands lowered into fists. Though she was never a thief, Satoshi could see how hard she must have trained still in the stance she took.

“What,” she growled, snapping the word like she wished it was a knife, “did you do to my son.”

Satoshi felt his throat close. It wasn’t me, he wanted to say. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, he needed to beg. But staring back at the devastation in her eyes, Satoshi found all of his words were gone, buried somewhere between the grave in his heart and the ashes in his mouth. All he could do was stand there, like the useless trash he knew she thought he was.

“Kyuu…”

Wiz pressed its nose against his cheek, then a flash of light heralded another transformation. A tan hand rested itself on his shoulder, tugged with the lightest pressure. Satoshi turned, surprise sparking somewhere deep in him, muffled through the exhaustion and malaise, at meeting downturned purple eyes.

“Daisuke,” the Dark-look-alike murmured. He reached out, and Satoshi let him take Daisuke from him. He cradled Daisuke close to himself for a moment before stepping towards the open door.

Moving out of his way didn’t take any thought. Satoshi found himself watching Wiz-Dark’s back disappear around the corner of the hallway. He couldn’t even bring Daisuke home properly. Was he not good for anything at all?

No, he knew the answer to that. Of course he wasn’t. His very blood was cursed, and Daisuke had paid for it.

“Was there something you needed?”

Blinking, Satoshi dragged his gaze from the hallway to the man blocking it. Daisuke’s father. His mother had left? She’d followed Daisuke, most likely.

“That looks like Daisuke’s bag, did you have something in it?”

The statue. He nodded, or he thought he did, and pulled it out. Again, it seemed to hum cheerfully under his fingers, unaware it was about to be sealed forever. Could the Niwas do that without Dark? They must be able to, they’d been collecting and sealing artworks even in generations Dark didn’t show.

“Oh, that’s the Flower Girl. She’s what Daisuke was supposed to steal tonight, right? Daiki said she’s been causing some trouble lately. Something about brides falling unconscious before they could walk down the aisle?”

Maybe he shrugged in response, he couldn’t quite feel his body anymore. He watched as Niwa smoothed his fingers along the statue’s face, much as he had when he’d brushed dirt off it. He couldn’t help but think it looked caring when Niwa did it. He didn’t think his own hands were capable of anything caring. No matter how much he might have wished they were.

“Thank you for bringing them home.”

Satoshi flinched away before he’d even properly heard the words. Niwa shouldn’t be thanking him for that. Niwa shouldn’t be thanking him at all. Shaking, small tremors rocking him that he hoped weren’t as visible as they felt, Satoshi bent in a deep bow. He’d get on his knees, but he thought if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stand again. And the faster he could leave, the sooner he would stop darkening the Niwas’ doorstep with his presence.

“Satoshi-”

Did running away make him a coward?

He’d add it to the list of reasons he should have died instead of Daisuke.

* * *

He wasn’t entirely sure when he got home, or how long he’d been sitting in the little room he’d shoved all the heirloom Hikari art supplies in. There was a canvas on an easel in front of him. Did he put that there? Or was it already there, and he just happened to be in front of it? It didn’t really matter, he supposed. Like always, he could feel the canvas calling to him. It wanted to be filled with color, filled with life. Satoshi didn’t think he had any of that left in him. The only person who had brought those things into his miserable existence was dead now. Because of him.

If only Daisuke had only been unconscious in that forest. He had looked so peaceful, so much like he would just wake up and laugh it off like he always did when he got hurt. The starlight had glittered on him and the shadows from the trees had blanketed him. Daisuke had always been more beautiful than all of the Hikari artworks combined. Satoshi had had to consciously stop himself from doodling his face more than once in class.

He found his hand tracing the memory of Daisuke’s face on the canvas. He’d read in old Hikari journals that making art of a real person only ended in tragedy. And he never painted, not unless it was an emergency – like that debacle with the Second Hand of Time. But there was nothing stopping him. And, truly, how much chaos could a painting of Daisuke come to? He was the single most pacifistic person Satoshi knew. Had known. He was sure that anything with Daisuke’s image could only come to good, even if said image was created by his cursed and bloody hand.

But a painting like that didn’t deserve to be hidden away in his apartment, never to see the light of day. Especially if – since – he wasn’t sure how much longer he himself was going to be around. What was the point of Hikari without Niwa? What was the point of Satoshi without Daisuke? There wasn’t one, as far as he could tell. But, maybe… He could give the painting to the Niwas. Since he was the one who took their son away, shouldn’t he be the one to give them his image back? And if he did give it magic and life, who knew what could happen?

There were plenty of canvases around; he just needed to find the right one. A painting of this importance deserved the best canvas he could find. The one already on the easel _could_ work. It was certainly big enough to hold the idea arranging itself in his head, though it was a little taller than it needed to be. Perhaps there was one on the shelves. Or he could make one from the canvas and wood stored here…

Distant rattling seemed to come from the chains that bound Krad, but it barely registered. There was no way he was escaping, not with how tightly he was caught. And Satoshi had something to do now. He wasn’t going to spend time or energy dealing with the demon that was going to perish with him.

No, he decided, none of the stored canvases were good enough. Besides, Daisuke deserved all of his effort. He couldn’t make his own canvas cloth, but building the frame and stretching the canvas with his own hands felt right. He couldn’t protect Daisuke with them, but he could do this. Softly, he patted the dust from his pants, dull gaze sweeping the room. He needed wood and canvas, handsaw and canvas pliers, nails and tacks and hammer. Distant gratitude to his ancestors filtered through his thoughts for keeping all of the tools of the various trades his family had composed in, making it simple to find everything he needed. The metal of the tacks and pliers glittered in the low light drifting in from the hall windows, and Satoshi absently clicked the light on and shut the door. Satisfied, he placed them on the corner of a table, reaching for the handsaw. Rust discolored it, annoying but easily fixed with some determination. Setting the wood aside, he focused on cleaning the rust away; there was no point measuring it before he had a working saw.

There wasn’t a window in his workshop, natural light and the risk of humidity too much a threat to the delicate materials within. Silence surrounded him, only broken by the gentle rasp of sandpaper on metal and his own breathing. Slowly, the bright metal was revealed, delicate etchings visible once more. He reattached the handle, similarly restored as the plate, and secured the plate for sharpening. The repetitive motions were soothing, tempering his emotions to a calm void, allowing time to pass in lazy apathy. File set aside, he measured and cut, aligned and nailed. His hands were steady for the first time since Dark broke into the museum, motions sure and reliable, the proper technique trained into his muscles and embedded in his blood.

Sedate and firm, he stretched the canvas over the frame, pulling and tacking with serene rhythm. This canvas was going to hold his masterpiece, the only thing he would ever paint for himself, and it was going to be formed perfectly, down to every tack. He painted the gesso on, smooth strokes spreading the primer in an even, thin layer. Later layers would need to be textured, teased into the perfect base for his oils, but this first layer just needed to smooth the canvas. Get rid of the irregularities, turn the pitted weave into the ideal surface. It was high quality cloth, but without the primer to plaster away its flaws, the entire painting would be wasted, ruined.

If only someone had covered up his, then maybe everything could have been avoided.

Sighing, Satoshi stood. The gesso would need time to dry before he could add another layer. Not long, but enough that he could eat something. He’d need his energy to paint, to focus on the magic he wanted to imbue Daisuke’s image with. Footsteps echoing in the silent hallways, he trudged to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the lights as he passed. He didn’t have much, but half a sandwich and some water would be enough. It wasn’t like he ate a lot anyway. Daisuke always forced him to take some of the lunch his mom made, always said she made too much so Satoshi had to help him finish it all. He’d never had the heart to tell him he did it on purpose. Krad was easier to control when he didn’t have the energy to transform, and if he forced the issue then the lack would keep him weaker.

Not that it had helped, in the end.

The dishes clinked quietly as he placed them in the sink. The gesso would be dry enough by now, so he should return to finish priming his canvas. The sun had risen, soft grey light seeping through the hallways as he made his way back. Slipping through the workshop door, he let himself breathe a moment, leaning back against the smooth wood. The curious calm from resolving to paint still surrounded him, blurring his thoughts and dulling his emotions. He was grateful for it, the same way he’d be grateful to someone holding a knife steady in him. If it was removed, he’d just bleed out, but for now, the damage was contained. He still had much to do, after all.

He pushed himself off the door, made his way back to his canvas. Sanding it was the work of mere minutes, the fresh gesso applied and the canvas set aside once again. His preferred easel was set against the wall, the oils he hasn’t touched since the Second Hand of Time next to it. It took some effort to move it, and memories of cleaning the art room with Daisuke dripped through his mind. Daisuke would have thought it funny that he had a favorite easel even though he never painted. He could almost see the way those red eyes would have brightened, the way that wide smile would have creased his face. Daisuke would have said something silly, like that he could tell the easel loved him back.

It was a nice thought. The sheer amount of idealism and cheer that Daisuke carried with him everywhere was something he needed to capture in the lines and colors that would make his image. Carefully, he settled his canvas onto the easel. It was a large canvas, almost too big for his easel to handle. But he needed the space, needed to be able to make his painting as lifelike as possible.

Again, the chains around Krad rattled. Again, Satoshi ignored him. He’d most likely try to escape later, when Satoshi was distracted with the art and weakened from its pull. It didn’t matter. He’d finish this painting before he died.

Brush dipped into paint, gathered the inert color that would bring Daisuke back into the world. Hand steady, he raised it to the pure blankness of the canvas. Froze, just before the brush could kiss color onto it. Would Daisuke be disappointed in him? He’d never painted but for emergencies, had told Daisuke numerous times that he refused to fall to the lure of art like his family before him. The bristles of his brush trembled, and he watched as the paint glimmered in the light. Daisuke would have wanted him to move on, to find something else to keep him alive, he was sure. But…but this was all he could do. He had no purpose in life other than capturing Dark, and now he was gone. Krad would destroy him before he’d even get close to old enough to have children, a family, and he didn’t want a child anyway. He refused to pass this curse along. Even if the Niwas had another child, he’d never see them.

And soon Daisuke would be buried, gone and decaying. All that would be left of him memories and pictures alone. Photographs could capture a moment, but they were lifeless monuments to a lost time. But him, his cursed blood, he could give essence to the image. It was the only thing he was good for. He _had_ to do this. Daisuke would understand.

The brush touched the canvas. Dark shadows bloomed from it, and he tore his hand back. The air was thin, his chest too tight to get a breath. Buzzing came from around him, inside him. He dug his nails into his palm, skin breaking with bright spots of pain and drops of red blood. It centered him, gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the whirling panic overtaking his thoughts. The black splotch on the canvas seemed to beat unevenly at him, baleful and agitated. It radiated his uncertainty and anxiety back at him. Mocked him with his inadequacies that he couldn’t even paint right, couldn’t even do the one thing built into his blood. Shutting his eyes, Satoshi let his head hang down. Slowly bullied his lungs back to normal. Relaxed his hand to hold the brush gently again. He needed to get control over himself before he could control the painting. That was Hikari history basics.

The dark spot was still there when he looked back up, but that was fine. He knew how to deal with it now. It had been born of his fear of getting this wrong. Of getting Daisuke wrong. He wouldn’t though. He knew Daisuke better than anyone, bar perhaps Dark. Seeing how Dark had a front-row seat to nearly all of Daisuke’s thoughts, he thought that was still something he could pride himself on. He’d deal with this spot the same way Daisuke had dealt with him whenever he succumbed to the miserable inevitability of his fate. Hope and cheerfulness didn’t come naturally to him, but they didn’t need to. He had the memories of Daisuke’s words. That would have to be enough. He’d make it enough.

Softly, he gathered more paint onto the bristles of his paintbrush. Softly, he pressed it to the spot. Softly, he filled it with those memories, memories of Daisuke encouraging him, Daisuke holding him, Daisuke refusing to let him give up. The spot bled lighter, smoothed out into the natural shadows he’d meant to paint. Breath light and slow, he picked up a different color, let it spread onto the canvas with memories of sunlit lunches on the rooftop. Then the next color, burning deeper with failed chases and the relief of seeing Daisuke unharmed the next day. The painting called to him, begged him to keep going. Somewhere, he knew that he should be wary of this, that being enchanted by his own art was dangerous. But it sang to a part of him he’d thought long extinguished, and he couldn’t bear to give it up. Not when he could see the shape of Daisuke’s body, Daisuke’s face, forming under his hand.

He watched as colors mixed, as details were carefully added and lines blended to the perfect softness. Watched as his vision gradually came to life, quiet and calm in the way Satoshi only ever saw when Daisuke didn’t know anyone was looking. He was stretched out on a bed, one of those fairytale princess beds far larger than any one person could need and draped in gauzy cloth. He looked peacefully asleep atop fluffy pillows, his school uniform rumpled and just askew, his arms tucked under his head. Satoshi almost thought he could see his back rising and falling with slow breaths, the shadows he painted ever changing with each stroke. Rich sunlight blanketed him with the soft colors of the fabric, blue and red and yellow dappling over his body, his face glowing in the light. In the background, the rest of the room was shadowed, dark not with the neglect of light but simply not important enough to be blessed by it. A figure leaned against the wall, indolent and cautious all at once.

Krad stirred again, shoved up against the cage Satoshi had made for him. But he was surrounded by glass, smooth and unbreakable, and Satoshi barely noticed the chiming sounds of his efforts underneath the drag of the magic he was pouring into his work. Into Daisuke.

Eventually, he didn’t notice it at all.

He smoothed his brush one last time down the bridge of Daisuke’s nose, then carefully set it down. It was done. He’d painted all he needed to. There was a fledgling awareness contained in the paint, something sleepy and warm. Half-aware of what he was doing, he reached for one of the spare tacks. He pricked his thumb, watched as a bead of bright blood welled. He pressed it to the corner of the painting, touch so light it didn’t disturb the wet paint. Pulling his hand away, he watched as his signature bloomed where his blood had been, felt as the awareness settled into sleep, seemingly happy to dream. He smiled at it, tired and pleased it was happy. Bleary, he ran a clean hand down the side of the canvas. It was an affectionate touch, one he wished he could have given its muse.

Now all he had to do was wait for it to dry. There was a cot in the corner of the workroom, and he stumbled over to it. Toppling down onto the dusty mattress, he found himself thinking that, for once, he might fall asleep quickly.

* * *

Something wet pressed to his cheek woke him up, an unknowable amount of time later. It dragged across his skin, huffed air at the corner of his eye, then squished itself back to his cheek. Uncoordinated as he always was in the mornings, he dropped a hand on top of whatever was next to his face. A squeak of surprise and soft fur against his fingers identified his visitor, though it took a few more minutes to process through the fog in his head.

“…Wiz…?” The word was barely intelligible, but he was barely awake and couldn’t yet do better.

A soft _kyuu_ answered him.

Slowly, he shoved himself upright to lean against the wall, feeling the rush of blood racing through his body, leaving him dizzy and vaguely nauseous. A light pressure in his lap told him where Wiz had gone, and he drifted a careful hand across its back. He blinked vaguely at the room, watching as the lines of the tables and canvases slowly came into focus.

“Kyu?” Wiz nudged his hand with its cold nose again, drawing his attention back from the void it had drifted to. The familiar was looking up at him, ears twitching.

“…Why are you here?” His voice was still slow to work, thick with sleep and the inability to organize himself.

Wiz stood to rest its paws on his stomach, looking at him with almost a worried gleam in its eyes.

“Oh. Are you here to check on me?” He didn’t know why it would, but a painful warmth grew in his chest at the thought. “I’m alright, you don’t have to worry about me.” It wouldn’t have much to worry about soon, anyway.

A cross look seemed to overtake the worry, and Wiz backed up slightly. Satoshi didn’t even know rabbits – or rabbit-like familiars – could look cross. Or why it would.

That was answered when a white paw pressed against his side, and pain sparked up through him. He blinked down at his shirt. There was blood soaked into it all the way from his ribcage to the hem, and halfway around his torso. He’d forgotten about the wound, never dressed it to stop its bleeding. Carefully, he tugged his shirt up. It wasn’t wet anymore, and didn’t pull on the wound. He pulled it off and threw it on the floor. Blood covered his skin as it had his shirt, but the wound itself was small. A couple inches across, just above his hip. He pressed cautious fingertips to it, hissed when a throb of pain answered from deep in his body. But it wasn’t bleeding anymore, and seemed to have healed enough that it wouldn’t reopen easily. It was a relief, mostly, but begged the question: how long had he been locked away working on the painting?

It didn’t matter, he decided.

Pushing himself off the bed, he drifted towards his painting. It hummed cheerfully at his approach, though it slept just as deeply as when Satoshi had left it. It had dried while he slept himself, and he felt its newfound stability in that. His fingers traced over delicate features, then reached for the varnish he’d left nearby at some point. He heard a soft thud behind him, near silent hops as Wiz came near. A tug on his pants drew his attention down to the small familiar. It had its front paws in the air, reaching up for him. Haltingly, feeling awkward, he scooped up the creature. Wiz clambered up his body, nestling itself against his neck, balanced on his shoulder. Satoshi held still, nervous that moving might knock it off. But when Wiz just shuddered and snuggled closer, he slipped into motion.

Long, even strokes brushed the varnish onto his painting, protecting it and making it shine. It seemed to sigh under his hand, the awareness curling up contently underneath the varnish. He’d never met an artwork so tame and happy before, and he couldn’t decide if that meant he’d been successful, that he’d been right that anything with Daisuke’s image would never harm anyone, or if he’d created the most dangerous art since the Black Wings, one that could convince you it was harmless just to steal everything out from under you when you least expected it.

He couldn’t bring himself to care if it was the second. Either way, it was destined for the Niwas’ home, and they were more than capable of handling it if it became troublesome.

Setting the varnish aside, he let a slow breath escape. The painting would need to dry again, and, now that he was aware of it, the blood on his skin was starting to itch. He made his way to the bathroom, Wiz still draped over his shoulder. There was only a hand cloth in the bathroom, it being a guest bath and not the master, but that would suffice. Satoshi wet it with warm water, then set about gently dabbing the crusted blood away. It took a few times of rinsing out the cloth, but eventually he was blood-free again. He dropped the cloth in the sink. Someone else could deal with it later.

The painting was dry when he got back to it. He lifted it off the easel, grunting at its weight. Getting it to the Niwas’ might be more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“Kyuu…” Wiz head-butted his jaw in a gentle admonishment. A flash of light, and again a pair of tanned hands reached to help him.

Satoshi met purple eyes and nodded. Between the two of them, they managed to get the painting to the door. But it was broad daylight out, preventing them from moving it further. Dark couldn’t be seen by the police, and they couldn’t fly over a busy town. Satoshi carefully didn’t consider the third option of how Wiz could help him. It wasn’t feasible anyway, not if news had spread.

Kind hands gathered him away from the painting, back towards the workroom. He let them move him, put up no resistance as he was shuffled along. Exhaustion weighed heavily again on him, and he saw no reason to fight. But he was turned before the workroom. He couldn’t help the confused noise that escaped him. Where were they going, if not the workroom?

Quiet shushing was his only answer until he managed to map out the house. The master bedroom was down this hallway. He wasn’t sure he wanted to sleep there; the workroom seemed like where he belonged. Among old and squandered Hikari artifacts, most never to see the light of day again.

But those purposeful hands kept pushing him along, and soon he didn’t have a choice. Wiz maneuvered him into the plush bed, pulled the covers over him. Closed the curtains in all the windows and then sat on the edge of the bed.

Satoshi fell asleep to quiet humming and a hand brushing through his hair, and the thought that if he let this continue it would break him.

* * *

When he woke again, it was dark out. Wiz was curled up in a puff of white next to his pillow, breathing slowly. Satoshi laid there and watched it, waited for it to jump up and do something, say something. When it didn’t, he pushed himself out of bed – slower and more cautious than usual from the dizziness ringing in his ears – and wandered down the hall. He had no destination in mind, but found himself sliding down the wall across from his painting. Again, it seemed to delight in his approach, and he let himself smile dazedly at it. He would miss it, he supposed. If he could miss anything, later. He let his eyes slip closed and tilted his head back against the wall. It would be nice to just…sit here, for a bit.

A wet nose pressed against his hand, and Satoshi blinked down at it. Had he fallen asleep? He didn’t know. It was still dark out, but Wiz had awoken and found him. He nodded and started to push himself to his feet, gratefully taking the offered hand after another flash of light. Satoshi watched as Wiz whispered to a black feather, placing it with delicate precision atop the painting when it was done. Wiz hooked two fingers under the wooden frame and lifted, the painting rising like it weighed nothing more than air. Putting it back down, Wiz smiled at him, then transformed into wings again, like he had that first night.

Satoshi opened the door, held his painting close, and took off into the air. The night was brilliantly clear, stars shining and not a cloud in sight. He let himself enjoy the freedom as Wiz guided them. He’d never understood why Daisuke watched the birds the way he did, longing and joy mixed in his gaze. But if this was how it felt to him every time he flew… If Satoshi had had this freedom, he’d never have landed again.

But land he must, as the Niwa house came into view. Wiz took them down in large, graceful loops, dragging out the flight precious seconds longer. Sooner than he liked, once again Satoshi found himself standing in front of the Niwas’ door, Wiz on one shoulder and Daisuke in his hands. Carefully, with every gentle thought in his heart, he leaned his painting against the wall, where it would just lean into the door enough to be seen, but not enough to fall when the door opened. He offered Wiz a hand down, but the familiar didn’t take it, instead huddling down against his skin. Goosebumps swept through him at the sensation, the tickle of the fur and chill of the night wracking a tremble from his spine.

“Wiz?” He whispered. He didn’t want to alert the Niwas he was here any more than he already had just by showing up. “Don’t you want to go home? I’m not going to need your help anymore.”

Wiz just glared at him and hunkered down further.

Sighing, Satoshi nodded. “Okay…” He reached out to pet its ears, but before he could, a flash and Wiz was his wings again. It hurt, for some reason, that Wiz refused him that touch. His fingers curled until his nails bit into his palm, and then he shook himself. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the doorbell. Immediately, a thud came from inside the house. He backed up a couple steps, eyes on his painting. Even now, it hummed a content song to him. Silent, he said goodbye and took flight.

There was no joy in this trip. He was cold by the time they touched down, hands shaking and breath trembling in his lungs. The house wasn’t much warmer than outside, but Wiz folding itself over his shoulders like a blanket helped. He reached for his computer, edited a few documents. Occasionally it was useful to be part of law enforcement, and to be a Hikari. Normal rules didn’t often apply to him. This was no exception. Last document finished, he closed the laptop with a quiet click.

The medicine cabinet in the master bathroom was meticulously organized, and had been as long as he’d been living there. It was always fully stocked as well. Anything he could do to prevent needing to go to the hospital was essential. Gauze sat next to rubbing alcohol, digestives and cough syrup on the next shelf. It was that last he grabbed. It was an old-fashioned cough syrup, made by one of the apothecaries a few streets over. A teaspoon could take care of the nastiest cough and guarantee a good night’s rest.

He drank the bottle.

It tasted like mud and salt and blood, and Satoshi barely noticed. The bottle clattered into the sink, the sound sharp and accusing. Satoshi measured its stare against his sins and found it lacking. He dragged himself to the bedroom, crawled into bed. He was so tired. His very bones felt heavy, like now that he’d finished his self-appointed mission they were unable to move. Hands tucked him under the covers, and he murmured a vague word of thanks. He was so cold, but maybe now he could be warm. Those same hands smoothed his hair from his face, traced down his cheek.

Satoshi fell asleep to quiet humming and a hand brushing through his hair, and the hope that this time, he could finally give in.

* * *

Two paintings hung in Emiko Niwa’s living room. One was massive, a life-sized painting of her son, asleep like he was dreaming happier dreams than she could ever think of. The other was a smaller portrait, found in her son’s room. In it, a boy stared out the window at birds, a desolate anguish in his eyes. The two paintings were nothing alike, near complete opposites in everything but subject matter. Yet, when placed next to each other, they seemed to belong together, like two halves of a previously lost showpiece.

Her son had painted the smaller piece. She knew not from the signature, though that was his, but from the way it was painted and the wistful tone of the colors. He’d always shown her his paintings before, but she understood why he’d kept this one secret. If she’d known he’d painted the Hikari boy like that, well, she didn’t know what she’d have done. Especially because it had the same spark of life that made all Hikari works so dangerous. But, much like the one of her son, his art was calm. Sad, so terribly sad, but perfectly content not interfering with anyone. She was getting better at reading the emotions of a piece, going through all the heirlooms and hidden artworks the Hikari boy had left her.

It had been her husband that suggested hanging them together. He’d said that the Hikari deserved to be remembered, that there were no other portraits of him, that he thought their son would have liked to hang his art.

She’d agreed because she hoped it would make the paintings happier.

She’d been right.

Her son’s portrait nearly always seemed cheerful, but next to its counterpart it seemed overjoyed. And slowly, the Hikari’s portrait lost its heartache. Its happiness was softer, quieter, more easily startled away by a loud noise or too close watching, but it was there.

And sometimes, when the house was very still in the middle of the night, Emiko was sure she heard the whispering of two boys down in the living room, faintly rejoicing in being together again.


End file.
